The Dominion
by Mrs. A. Hamilton
Summary: Late 18th century France is dealing with a revolution, while America has just concluded its own. A story of cabal and intrigue, angels and demons, Loyalists and Jacobins, Hamiltonians and Jeffersonians. Please R&R.
1. A Strange Countenance

**Author's Note:** I had posted this story once, but due to somehistorical inaccuracies and lack of direction, I took it down and made some modifactions. The story remains, for the most part, the same, only now I have a clear idea where it shall lead.

* * *

August, 1789. Shouts reverberated along the worn cobblestone streets of Paris. The elegantly clad speaker, crowned with dark, close-cropped hair, stood loftily on a rugged box before the Hôtel de Ville, holding a freshly printed pamphlet in his right hand for his captivated audience to behold.

_Nous sommes trahis!_ the fiery orator shouted, waving the pamphlet furiously. Several lackeys—for so the less-elegantly clad young men appeared to be—carried stacks of the same pamphlet, and began to distribute them to the desperate peasants.

'Betrayed!' the local butcher exclaimed, as he wiped his blood-stained hands upon his dirty apron. 'Betrayed, indeed!' He quickly grabbed his copy. 'God bless the man Marat and his paper!' The surrounding bystanders echoed the cheer.

An old broad chimed in, '_Remerciez le Seigneur!_ Our prayers have been answered!' She gleefully received her pamphlet and gratefully patted the young deliverer of the newly discovered gospel. 'What a good boy you are, Gaston—so good to help Monsieur Marat spread enlightenment to the French people.'

Gaston smiled sheepishly. 'I do what I can, Madame.' In truth, he did nothing to assist this preposterous revolutionary, except dispense his papers. Nevertheless, he was helping to depose a tyrant he knew nothing of, to destroy a human being he had no sympathy for, and that was sufficient for Gaston's personal contentment. He deserves it, the lad thought, because we the common people suffer while this tyrant in Versailles does not.

'Might I have one?' a voice queried suddenly—a voice so distinctly beautiful, rich, and melodious that Gaston started at first, almost dropping his diminishing stack of leaflets.

'Certainly, monsieur,' the lad replied, as he hastily readjusted the pamphlets in his arms. A copy almost escaped his grasp, but Gaston reached it in time and handed the requested item to the apparent beholder of that unearthly song.

'Here you are, monsieur,' Gaston began, but stopped short, as he found himself staring into the most brilliant hazel eyes he ever beheld. A sudden terror gripped his heart—more out of awe than out of fear—and the lad could not help but gawk. The man simply smiled, tipped his top hat in thanks, and then turned to leave. Gaston continued to stare after the stranger and pondered how such an eye color came to exist.

'What you gapin' at?' the Old Broad yawped, tearing the young man from his thoughts.

'Why, at that man who wanted a paper,' Gaston returned, pointing to a figure mingling into the crowd. 'That one—with a top hat and fancy clothes.'

The Old Broad scratched her head, glanced behind her, then riveted her eyes back to Gaston, and finally shook her head. 'There's no one wearin' a top hat here, lad.'

'But he was standin' right next to you!'

'The butcher's been here the whole time!'

'Then, Butcher, did I not just a hand a man wearin' a top hat a paper?' Gaston was becoming exasperated.

'As far as I'm concerned, lad, there was no one there.'

To most of the lower social classes of society, any piece of clothing that simply fit the wearer, and contained no sign of ill-treatment, bore the appellation of 'fancy.' The man in the top hat, however, deemed his apparel unworthy of that description. O, the trifling affairs of mankind! How they are satisfied with so little!

In any event, after the small encounter with the young man Gaston, the stranger did his best to slip away unnoticed. Hordes of the Enemy had stationed themselves everywhere in Paris. Yet, somewhere, in this wretched, demon-infested city, where Enlightenment became God and _philosophes_ the authors of its Bible, faithful saints knelt in prayer.

'Kael!' a voice called softly from behind. A seemingly handsome young republican with loose golden hair and bright azure eyes emerged from behind the butcher's shop. Kael nodded, and together, the two tall silhouettes silently stole into the dark alley before them and vanished from the sight of men.

_Clack! Clack!_ The iron cane clipped the street; its possessor bounced slightly to its beat. His auburn hair, partially hidden by a felt hat, was pulled back and braided, and a long, wavy ponytail descended upon his back. The viridian redingote frockcoat suited him wonderfully, and his sparkling sea-gray eyes betrayed his delight with his material disguise.

Indeed, Monsieur Raoul Champney was a striking gentleman, though he was hardly seen among the Parisian crowd—_if_ he was seen at all, that is.

Nevertheless, the striking monsieur strolled down Saint Antoine—or at least what remained of it after July—until he came upon a familiar street lantern. The well-proportioned figure took a quick glance around and then stealthily slipped into the small alley.

'_Bonsoir_, _messieurs_,' he called out jovially to the two shadows lurking in the darkness, still clacking his cane.

'I see you are enjoying yourself immensely, Rafael,' the golden-haired youth said, observing the cane and felt hat.

'Quite so, dear Gabriel, quite so,' Monsieur Champney returned, obviously amused. The gentleman turned to Kael and his countenance became stern; his smile, grim. 'So tell me, General, what became of the gathering?'

Kael said nothing at first, but handed him the pamphlet.

'_L'Ami du Peuple_!' Rafael exclaimed, as he read the first column. 'Confound Marat!'

'And there's plenty more where that came from!' Gabriel added.

Kael only shook his head. 'At least sixty heads rolled yesterday on account of this paper.'

'And they have the audacity to proclaim that this revolution models the American one!'

'Can we not put an end to this scribble?' Rafael asked. 'If this hate-filled rhetoric continues, it will be the death of the king of France!'

Kael looked up, and Rafael perceived the anguish in his hazel eyes. 'You are not…serious?'

'He and his family have been transferred to Paris, for the moment,' Kael assured him. 'But Jean-Paul Marat and his associates do not lie within our principality. For now, our assignment is to keep the saints protected and praying. A particular target will be revealed to us in a short while,' the General turned to Gabriel, 'and I believe it is your mission to find him, once he is revealed.' The golden-haired youth nodded.

'For now, let events run their course,' Kael continued. 'Rafael, I want to know who rules Paris for the present and the size of his legion.' He adjusted his brown cuffs and top hat. 'Meanwhile, I must attend a meeting elsewhere in town before I head off to America to evaluate our two feisty targets there.' Kael chuckled slightly, and then said, 'Be certain to remain hidden; avoid skirmishes at all cost.'

'General, there's a rumor circulating in the princes' choir,' Rafael interjected softly, 'that you will be meeting…_him_.'

The slight bronze cast which tinted Kael's fair countenance suddenly paled.

'What?' Gabriel cried, righteous anger manifested in his brightened eyes. 'Whatever for?'

Kael attempted to regain his composure. 'A deal,' he responded, almost inaudibly.

The youth was aghast. 'With _him_?'

'The Lord consented.'

'Kael, it's a trap!' Gabriel gripped the General by the shoulders as though attempting to awaken him from a trance. 'Paris is infested with demons! You have no strength here!'

'I'm aware of the situation, Gabriel,' Kael said affectionately and gently brushed his friend away. 'Be comforted; everything remains under His control.'

Kael adjusted his cuffs once again. 'You have your orders,' the chief prince said firmly. 'Remember, conduct your business quietly. We cannot afford open war at the moment. Report to me as soon as possible.'

The General of the Heavenly Host gazed upon his fellow combatants and companions one last time, and then finally breathed, 'Godspeed.'

'Godspeed,' the remaining heavenly warriors echoed.

Kael turned back to the direction from whence he came; Gabriel and Rafael ventured towards the street lantern.

An ominous silence fell upon Paris. The night seemed so unsettling that it appeared as though the hand of Evil had stretched forth its black fingers and enveloped the city in total darkness.

Kael lifted his face towards the heavens. He saw no stars.


	2. The Invasion

A vast, sinister shadow descended upon Paris, a sepulchral fog which covered the city in a stygian gloom. Shrieking, spitting, and hissing, Hell's finest dove into France's renowned capital, prepared to prey upon its unsuspecting inhabitants.

At the vanguard of this demon-invasion soared a giant monstrosity. Adorned in glimmering accoutrement, the beast fell upon his earthly principality like a humungous jeweled, black bat swooping down upon his prey. His muscular hide tensed and flexed as he caught sight of his designated palace.

Summoning another demon to his side, the two evil spirits alighted upon the Château d'Ermenonville, while the remaining demonic legion plummeted into Paris, bloodthirsty and eager to establish a Luciferian Empire.

-----()-----

'Thou must swear to reveal to thy new chief all thou shalt have heard, learned and discovered, and also to seek after and spy into things that might have otherwise escaped thy notice,' a feeble voice quivered, 'and finally, to avoid all temptation to betray what thou has now heard.'

The old man, holding a black book, gazed eerily upon the new inductee. 'Lightning does not strike so quickly as the dagger which will reach thee wherever thou mayest be,' he finally breathed. 'Dost thou swear it?'

'I do swear it.'

'Open thine eyes.'

The young gentleman could not have been more than thirty-five. He blinked his eyes open, revealing a hazel green which glinted of intelligence. He was a handsome gentleman despite his flat forehead, had sensuously curved lips and a fair countenance. His apparel was noticeably republican; only the cravat and the undershirt were white.

Another gentleman, crowned with a Cadogan wig, plump in appearance, took the younger by the hand. 'Maximilien François Marie Isidore de Robespierre,' he announced with a theatrical flourish, 'welcome to the Secret Committee of United Friends.' A polite smattering of applause ensued.

'Thank you, Count Mirabeau.'

'Do not thank _me_!' the rotund French count laughed, raising his thin eyebrows. 'Thank your Rex! What an honor it is that the founder of our doctrine should initiate you into our society!'

The aged supervisor of the initiation placed the book back in its iron box. 'Quite unnecessary,' he said, as Robespierre reached for his hand. 'I should thank _you_, Monsieur Robespierre.' The old man sat down at the head of the long, polished table. 'You are helping to establish something I began a little less than twenty years ago—a universal dominion of Reason.'

'I do what I can to aid the movement of progress, Frater Spartacus,' the lawyer returned.

'Indeed,' the Rex smiled, 'and that is why we have some very important business to attend to.'

He motioned the conspirators to the long table. The chamber, though not large, was actually quite pleasant, in spite of the heavy darkness. Even in the candlelight the observer could perceive ornate light fixtures, elegant furniture, and burgundy-curtained windows which allowed a fair prospect of the large pond surrounding the château.

Yet, with all of the beauty of the salon, gruesome shadows slithered along its walls, hissing and cackling, their bulging yellow eyes glowing, relishing the ignorance of these truth-seeking scholars. Their talons sunk deep into the minds of the intellectuals and the demons whispered words of sweet deception softly into their eager ears. How weak the human mind is!

All at once, the atmosphere grew deathly still. Fortunately for the Committee, only the demons noticed it.

'Be silent and remain by your host,' a deep, sibilant voice boomed out of the darkness.

The commanded dared not move in their terror. A tall silhouette emerged out of the gloom, its talons clicking on the polished floor.

'Gentlemen,' it spoke again, gesturing behind him, 'Ba-al Raghvar, Prince of Paris.'

And the prince came forth, imposing and stately, his ebony hair caressing his shoulders and back, and his massive leathery wings fell down behind him like a royal train. His face, now revealed, retained some of its previous humanistic qualities, but there was no question of its distortion; Raghvar was, after all, a grotesquely deformed angel.

The remaining spirits, still quivering in fear, attempted to make their obeisance, but the Prince of Paris held up his hand. 'No need—I see you are all working very diligently.' His black eyes bore into each of their yellow ones as his large talon tapped his decorative hilt. Raghvar smiled hideously as he watched his underlings eyeball the prince's scabbard, inching away as best they could, while tightly clinging to their hosts.

'Asmodeus,' the demon prince said finally, turning to his accompaniment. 'See to Paris for the moment, while I supervise this discussion.'

'Yes, my Ba-al.'

'The meeting could occur at any moment. I expect a full account of the necessary details upon its conclusion.'

'It as you command, my Ba-al.'

With a powerful beat of his expansive black wings, Asmodeus shot through the roof and into the menacing pall of night.

-----()-----

With horror flickering in his sea-gray eyes, Rafael watched the demon of wrath rush towards Paris. He had seen the two spirits depart from the unearthly shadow to Ermenonville, and the archangel followed them there, disguised. Rafael had hardly reached the woods skirting the pond when the giant spirit took off.

'What in Heaven's name..!' he murmured, lifting his felt hat. 'A demon that size could possibly take on Kael in his unglorified state—!'

The archangel never fully finished his thought, but hastily took up his iron cane and ran back to Paris as quickly as his non-ethereal constitution would allow him.

_Kael, what will they do to you?_

_-----_()-----

'Now, where were we…the American Project, I think,' the Rex continued. He turned to a dimly lit figure at the opposite end of the long table. 'Well, I see that our expert has graced us here with his rare presence,' he said. 'Monsieur Robespierre, allow me to introduce you to Count Alessandro de Cagliostro. He is blessed with great power.'

The Italian count rose from his chair and bowed, his fleshy face affable and pleasant, but his sapphire eyes were narrow and gleamed with malevolence. Robespierre stood and bowed in return.

'How far are we coming along on that independent continent?' the Rex queried somewhat mockingly, folding his hands together.

'As of yet, our doctrine has made its way into 200,000 lodges throughout Europe and America,' Cagliostro replied in his distinct Italian accent. 'I have been informed that the American Masonic lodges have been so effectively infiltrated that some are beginning to call themselves "the French Revolutionary Club."' He allowed a quiet chuckle to escape his lips. 'But that progress is also largely due to our American friend, who has just recently returned to his home in Virginia.'

'Excellent,' the Rex nodded, quite pleased. The elderly gentleman then turned to the newest member, and placed his hand paternally on his arm. 'I think now, Robespierre,' he said, 'I can commend you to lead this monumental revolution.'

'It would be an honor, my Rex.'


	3. The Meeting

**Author's Note:** Thank you for your review, Bahaghari.

* * *

With quick, hurried steps, Kael tread back down Rue de Charonne. The moment he perceived the descending demon horde, he suppressed his celestial aura drastically, like a bright candle snuffing out its own light. His strength now mitigated, the repulsive presence of the villainous legion fell upon the archangel like a heavy weight, and he suddenly felt he had to put effort into his steps to keep his original pace. 

Kael lifted his top hat slightly to push his reddish-gold bangs away from his right eye and behind his ear. For now, the General appeared to be a well-to-do middle-class gentleman attired in a muscadine redingote frockcoat, light brown knee breaches, and black jockey boots. He hoped the spirits clutching the emerging prostitutes and their customers around him would see nothing else.

A light shone a little ways down, past some closed cafés and decrepit houses. A wine-shop, the archangel mused. Yet, as Kael drew closer, the air grew colder, his steps became heavier, and his breathing, more difficult. His head began to pound, and he reached for the door more for the purpose of support rather than opening it. The General's non-ethereal state was being taken advantage of, and he knew it. One of the by-standing waiters perceived his pallor, and rushed to assist the gentleman.

'Are you well, monsieur?' the waiter asked, his blue eyes, peering through ebony locks, full of genuine concern. 'Let me assist you to a table, monsieur.'

'No, thank you,' Kael returned somewhat breathlessly. 'Actually, I'm meeting someone here.'

The young waiter's eyes brightened at a sudden recollection, and remembered that indeed there was a particular gentleman waiting in the back parlor for a certain Monsieur Delamater. Upon confirming his identity, Kael was led to a private parlor toward the rear of the wine shop. After the faint General thanked the attentive young waiter, he passed through the door.

'I've been expecting you, Monsieur Michel Delamater.' Bright lavender eyes peered into Kael's hazel ones. The possessor motioned to a cushioned bench circumventing an elegantly carved, round table. 'Won't you please sit down?'

An evil majesty surrounded this tall Adonis. His attire consisted of a deep burgundy-colored _habit dégagé,_ decorated with ornate buttons lining the breast and cuffs, while florid embroidery trimmed the edges. Beige breeches covered his legs and white silk stockings exposed his lean calves. His platinum-tinted hair hung loosely about his flawless countenance, caressing his shoulders and back. The well-proportioned figure raised his eyebrows seductively as he watched Kael seat himself.

'What's this?' he queried, his sensuous lips curving into a smile. 'Is the power of the Prince of Darkness too overwhelming for a Son of God?'

Kael struggled to maintain his composure. 'That has yet to be determined, Lucifer.'

'And it will be, Monsieur Delamater,' the fallen angel returned, slowly sinking into the velvet cushions, facing his guest. 'Or should I say…Lord Mikha'el, Chief Prince and General of the Heavenly Host?'

The archangel ignored him. 'What business do you have with the Lord of Hosts?'

'Talking business already?' The smile did not leave Satan's lips. 'Why don't you relax and enjoy yourself first? Some brandy might enliven you.' Lucifer rang a silver bell and then set it back upon the table.

'Brandy?' Kael laughed incredulously. 'You _are_ aware that alcohol—no matter how strong—does not affect me like it would a mortal?'

'Of course,' the demon lord returned. The previous waiter entered the chamber with the requested beverage and two scintillating, crystal wine glasses placed upon a silver tray, and set the dishes on the table. Lucifer proceeded to pour his guest some brandy, before continuing. 'But I am also aware that you are on restraining orders.' He handed the glass to the waiter, who, in return, dispensed the item to the reluctant General. The dark prince dismissed the young waiter and then continued to fill his own glass.

'Be assured, Lucifer, I've been on restraining orders for the last three millennia. I promise you, you would have noticed a drastic change in your condition were it otherwise.'

Unaffected, the evil lord took a sip from his glass. 'I have never before encountered a solitary angel—especially one of so high of rank—in his non-ethereal state, wandering aimlessly in a territory overrun by demonic forces,' Lucifer continued, searching Kael's hazel eyes. 'That's a bit odd, don't you think, Lord Mikh'ael? Alone…and unaccompanied?' Satan's lavender eyes glinted malevolently. 'You would be almost certain that he's not as aimless as he appears.' Then he shook his head with feigned sympathy. 'To think what my minions would subject you to if they were informed of your…_weakened_ state…' Lucifer took another sip.

Kael said nothing. The atmosphere in the room was becoming increasingly heavy, the archangel noticed, making it very difficult to think coherently.

'What is it you want?' the General finally asked.

'You know,' Satan began, returning his glass to the table, 'do you realize, General, that I could handle you in any manner which pleases me, and you would not be able to resist?' He took up his glass one last time, drained it, and threw it to the wooden floor, the crystal shattering into thousands of little shards. 'It appears that the brandy will end up doing you some good,' Lucifer chuckled sadistically, as he watched the color drain from Kael's noble countenance.

'You wouldn't dare!' Kael cried out, almost desperately.

But the Prince of Darkness rose from his cushioned seat, the evil which consumed him emanating from his core, and his lavender eyes were full of malice.

-----()-----

Wine glasses clanged, forks and knives scratched the dinner plates, and sounds of merriment echoed across the elegantly furnished dining room. This particular house on Market Street represented one of the more lavish residences in Philadelphia, and it never looked grander than tonight, as high-ranking public officials banqueted in its halls.

The host—a tall, lanky man with reddish hair and hazel eyes, plainly dressed—called for another bottle of Burgundy. Cheers circled round the table, and one rather corpulent official remarked that there wasn't a better way to start serious business.

'If there's one thing Mr. Jefferson learned from the French,' the official continued, 'it's how to entertain one's guest with good vintage.' Laughter and shouts of affirmation corroborated Henry Knox's compliment.

But these public officials weren't the only guests enjoying this craftily designed dinner. A throng of angels and demons had dispersed themselves throughout the chamber, as the crimson wine filled each man's glass.

Asmodeus had nested himself comfortably in the French chandelier as his massive wings draped over the light fixture, the demon's ruby-red eyes glowing with pleasure, despite the discomforting presence of the Heavenly Host. This meeting would prove whether the specific 'targets' would be willing to commit to the Luciferian cause. The Heavenly Host may have taken the New World, Asmodeus knew, but the infant republic, founded on Truth, Freedom, and Religion, was still young and vulnerable, and could easily be undermined from within—even from across the Atlantic.

As formal rhetoric began to wane, both holy and evil spirits perceived that the business matter was apparently settled, and watched with eager anticipation as the light-headed officials began to engage in idle chatter with one another, as each member either sipped or swished the remaining drink in their wine glasses.

The cunning Virginian, however, was not idle. Thomas Jefferson looked to the youngest principal officer seated at the opposite end of the table, who continued to examine his glass of Burgundy. Lean and thin-shouldered, with auburn hair turned back from his forehead and braided in a club behind, this uncommonly handsome gentleman emanated a dignified air of self-confidence, his beautiful violet-blue eyes sparkling with a perceptiveness that some men believed to be unearthly. The candlelight revealed his somewhat feminine rosy cheeks, and enhanced the chiseled, sculpted features of his fair countenance. Jefferson had watched him carefully, observing his every move, in search of some hidden secret, some opening for attack. Alexander Hamilton was oblivious.

The laughter dwindled as the conversation fell upon the subject of the British constitution. Jefferson recognized the Bostonian dialect of John Adams. 'Purge that constitution of its corruption,' the vice president remarked, 'and it would be the most perfect constitution ever devised by the wit of man.'

Jefferson's hazel eyes riveted towards Hamilton, who thereupon looked up from his glass. A moment of silence ensued, and the demons waited nervously for the next speaker.

'Purge it of its corruption,' Hamilton's melodic voice suddenly began, 'and it would become an _impracticable_ government.' Jefferson's eyes narrowed as the treasury secretary continued, 'As it stands at present, with all its supposed defects, it is the most perfect government which ever existed.'

Only few high-ranking Federalists nodded, but most of the officials, the wine finally taking its toll, laughed incredulously, perceiving Hamilton's statement as a kind of joke. The treasury secretary graciously received their friendly pats and punches, and then finally decided to drain his own glass.

But the secretary of state knew he was serious—deadly serious.

-----()-----

It was nearly three in the morning, Rafael realized, glancing at his pocket watch.

'Is there any possible way you could quicken the pace of this carriage?' he yelled, poking his head out of the window.

'Calm down, man, we've almost arrived at Rue Sainte-Antoine!' the driver returned somewhat agitatedly.

The archangel fell back into his seat and heaved a despairing sigh.


End file.
